


Cacophony

by kiss_the_apex



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2014 season, M/M, Magical Realism, Music, POV Second Person, Soulmates-ish, the only time I've written like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 00:28:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_the_apex/pseuds/kiss_the_apex
Summary: "You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they sing a song only you can hear." A very literal interpretation of this Oscar Wilde quote, through the eyes and mind of Daniel Ricciardo.





	Cacophony

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in 2014, and to this day I have no idea why I chose this pairing. Weird that they're now team-mates(!). Also I'm a sucker for any/all kinds of magical realism/soulmate fics so this is super self-indulgent. You can also find me on Tumblr (again) at kiss-the-apex.

"You don't love someone for their looks, or their clothes, or for their fancy car, but because they _sing a song only you can hear_" - Oscar Wilde

\-------------------------

The humming starts in January. January the 28th to be precise. 

It’s slight at first, background noise that you barely notice and that gets overlapped by other sounds. A dull vibrato that seems to pulse from the rear left of your brain, back near the base of your skull. Mildly irritating, but nothing that can’t be ignored.

You figure that it’s tinnitus or whatever from all your years of listening to loud music, that your body has finally had enough of standing too close to stacks of speakers and now you’re being lightly punished for it.

_Must be getting old. _You think, smiling ruefully.

The sound goes away after a few days. 

It comes back in March. In stops and starts, sometimes so faint that you can forget about it completely, but sometimes so loud that it all but drowns out everything else. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve shook your head to try and get rid of it. It seems to have no pattern, no connection to anything, and it’s beginning to get more than a little annoying.

One of the mechanics notices you whacking yourself over the head as you make your way out of the garage.

“You okay, mate?” He asks, concern plain in his voice and mapped out on his face.

And you smile your trademark smile - pinpointing the second that relief sweeps over the mechanic’s features (you’ve learnt that you can fix pretty much anything with a smile), and inform him that everything is fine. It’s only a half-lie, the hum has gone almost completely, but you’re still left with the lingering sense of uncertainty and (dare you say it) fear. You exit quickly, making your way down the paddock for no reason, just wandering with no real purpose. You welcome the distraction of fans coming up to you to ask for photos and autographs, realising that this is exactly what you wanted to achieve.

You’re so wrapped up in smiles and handshakes and hugs that you don’t notice the hum in your head until suddenly you can pick out individual notes. It’s almost like… music. Muffled, echoey music, but there’s definitely a melody there now, and it’s the loudest it’s ever been.

You stop walking outside the Force India garage, staring into the middle distance as you try and concentrate on the sound. A couple of team personnel shoot you a strange glance and whisper to each other, but you ignore them. A frown eases it’s way onto your forehead as you focus, but it doesn’t help. The sound stays the same, like you’re listening to a song from the opposite end of a tunnel.

_What_ is_ this?_

“Dan!”

Someone calls your name from behind, and you turn around, erasing the sounds from your mind. Trying to convince yourself that you’re not going insane. 

You’re getting pretty good at that now.

\-----------------------

Practice sessions fly by, there are no issues for you. Sebastian’s side of the garage is a flurry of movement and noise almost constantly though, and you feel a tiny bit sorry for him. But then you remember that he’s already won this thing four times, he already knows what it feels like, and if he’s upset about anything he’s not showing it.

Qualifying presents itself with rain-soaked tarmac and low expectations. But you knuckle down and concentrate and there are some moments when the humming throbs and swells in your head, forcing you to scrunch your eyes shut, but then it’s gone. Retreating like a slow-moving tide. You qualify fourth, ahead of Seb again, but not in the hallowed top three spots. Second row isn’t that bad, you tell yourself, you’ve dealt with worse.

You’re walking back down the paddock after you’ve done your talking to the media (“I’m really pleased with P4, we can do a lot from there.” “Obviously I’d like to be higher up but it’s tomorrow that counts!”), waving at cameras and stopping for fans when the music in your mind builds again. You glance around for the umpteenth time to try and find the source but as always there’s nothing. The people around you should no signs of being able to hear any tunes, engaged in conversations or running to and from the garages on your right. You frown, annoyed and confused and your walk turns into almost a march, long purposeful strides taking you towards the origin of the music. It’s evolved into a definite song now, with a heavy thudding bass beat and a lilting melody over the top that you’ve only just been able to focus on. It’s kind of beautiful really. Kind of perfect, actually. If it wasn’t so damned insistent.

With added determination you keep going, fists clenched at your sides, head raised high. It’s getting to the point that you can no longer hear anything else but the music, if anyone tried to talk to you you know you wouldn’t be able to hear them. Your eyes dart from person to person until they stop on Nico Hulkenberg, who is striding towards you with his head down, eyes on the floor, race suit tied around his waist. His entire posture radiates tension - as he walks closer you notice that his fingers are curled so tightly into his palms that his knuckles are pure white. And still the music gets louder. It’s almost unbearable now, you know from your years of watching live music that you can take it, but it’s not just in your head anymore. It’s filling you up, spreading down through your body like lava, hot and slow and you pause to wonder if it’s even possible for sound to feel like a physical thing because it is, it is. 

Just when you think that you might break and fall and claw at your insides right there, the music starts to fade. You can pick out chunks of background noise again and you stop, dead in your tracks. You look around you to try and make sense of why the sounds have quietened, but you’re just in between garages and motorhomes, no different than any other part of the paddock. But then your eyes settle on him.

Hulkenberg has also stopped walking, about twenty feet behind you. You turn to look at him, his movements mirroring your own from a second ago, his head twisting around, his hands unfurling. You know you’re staring but you don’t care, this is important, somehow. Finally he turns around and meets your gaze, confusion plain on his face. You feel yourself frowning unconsciously, dark brows drawing together. Hulkenberg cocks his head to one side minutely, as if contemplating something. You both stand there, frozen. Five seconds, ten seconds crawl by. And then Hulkenberg takes a step forward. And another. By the time he plants his foot down for the third time the music has returned, the bones of your skull rattling with it. This time you feel your eyebrows shoot upwards, your feet stumbling backwards of their own accord to escape the sound. You see your expression mirrored on Hulkenberg’s face, realisation dawning over both of you at once.

_It’s him._

_The music is him._

This is impossible. Absurd. People can’t cause music_ inside each other’s skulls_. You shake your head, partly to re-focus, partly to tell Hulkenberg _no, do not come any closer_. Your feet shuffle backwards again.

“Dan.” Hulkenberg speaks. He’s smart enough to stay where he is, his experiment over, the results confirmed.

“Stop.” You say, raising a hand. “Stay there.”

Hulkenberg rolls his eyes and crosses his arms across his chest, making a show of standing totally still. You look around, people are starting to stop and watch your conversation, a gaggle of fans have clustered behind Hulkenberg and are pointing and giggling. The music in your head is just about bearable, a perfect mix of outside noises and inner sounds. You wonder what Hulkenberg hears, if it’s the same song. Because you can both obviously hear _something._

This isn’t the place for this, not at all. There are too many people, too many eyes and ears. How can you talk to him without revealing too much?

“Okay.” You begin, taking a breath. “You, that way,” A point of a finger. “Me, this way.” A jerk of a thumb over your shoulder.

“Fine.” Hulkenberg says, not missing a beat, his arms uncrossing in one fluid motion. “But-”

“I know.” You interrupt, hoping your minds are on the same wavelength. Hoping that he intends to stay well away to quieten the cacophony in your head. Because you really can’t be dealing with this.. distraction. Not on a race weekend.

He nods at you once, a sharp, serious motion, and then turns and walks away, the group of girls following him as he weaves around the knots of people. As you watch him leave, you focus on the music, noticing it get quieter and quieter, until it’s back to just a dull hum. You scowl at the tiny retreating figure as it finally ducks into a garage. 

You shove your hands into the pockets of your racesuit and stalk away, back to the comfort and security of your own motorhome. For some reason you’re angry, almost shaking with rage, the same thoughts going round and round your head, swimming like eels through the low hum. This is so unlike you, you realise, you’re almost never this mad - issues just roll off of you, you’re pretty proud of this fact. But _this_ has gotten right under your skin, buried it’s way in and taken up residence somewhere between your blood and bones.

Hulkenberg? Of all people?

It’s makes literally no sense, and that infuriates you. This is something that no amount of smiles and witty joking will fix, and that annoys you. No, “annoys” is the wrong word.

More like “scares”.

\--------------------------

That evening, after you’ve gone back to your hotel and the hum has faded to nothingness, you take out your phone from your pocket. You were half expecting Hulkenberg to make the first move, to have contacted you already, but there were no messages from him and that ticked you off even more.

You scroll down to his name in your contact list, a name you just have there by courtesy, a name you have never messaged before. A name you have never _needed_ to message before. Tucking your legs up underneath yourself on the bed you try to work out what to say. God, how do you even begin to approach this.

_DR: So, Nico. _

Ugh, you make a frustrated little sound and pound the backspace button until the screen is blank again.

_DR: We need to talk._

Direct, to the point, doesn’t give anything away. Yes that would do. You hit ‘Send’, close the messaging screen and open up the Twitter app. Your eyes skim over the messages of congratulations for qualifying and good luck with the race tomorrow, a couple of sponsors saying things that you needed to retweet. A message from Mark which coaxed a grin out of you, cracking across your face for the first time in what felt like hours. Again, you realise how out of character you were being. No smiles all evening? You rub at your cheek, feeling the barbs of day old stubble biting into your fingertips.

The phone vibrates in your other hand, the text message appearing and overlapping the screen you were previously looking at.

_NH: Indeed. So talk._

The brusque response wipes the smile from your face and reinstates the familiar scowl you have begun to associate with Hulkenberg. If the music didn’t give you headache then you’re sure all this frowning would.

_DR: Okay. Music, right? Annoying music._

You’re lying, because the music isn’t annoying, it’s possibly the most perfect song in the world, but you want to draw him out, try and see how much he knows about what’s happening to you. To both of you.

He replies instantly.

_NH: Been happening since the season started? Kind of on and off? Which I guess is to do with where you were at the time.._

_DR: Yes. I can’t hear anything now so I assume you’re at a different hotel. Do you know what’s going on?_

_NH: Not a clue. Pretty inconvenient though. You’re… loud._

_DR: I could say the same about you, mate! _

You cringe, calling him ‘mate’ is not the way this was supposed to go. Too late now, the message is sent, floating in it’s little blue bubble, untouchable.

_NH: I propose that we stay out of each other’s way as much as we can. Until we figure things out._

Okay. Okay, that was fine, expected. What surprises you is that he’s on the same wavelength as you. His tone via text is very curt, very German. He reveals next to nothing.

_DR: Cool, sounds fine to me!_

_NH: Hopefully I won’t be seeing you anytime soon._

Now that was weird. And harsh. You were trying to be nice! And understanding, when really you didn’t understand _anything_. You untuck your feet and let them dangle over the side of the bed as you hunch over your phone, the darkening room now illuminated by the tiny screen’s glow.

_DR: Hopefully I don’t *hear* you anytime soon._

And that was it. You waited for a reply for a while, but when it became clear that it wasn’t going to come, you tossed the phone aside, and set about getting something to eat, telling yourself that you weren’t going to waste any more time on this. That as long as he kept his distance, everything would be fine.

\-------------------

“Fucking Hulkenberg!”

The yell was torn from your throat and swallowed by your helmet as Hulkenberg kept trying to overtake you during the race, the sound in your head drowning out almost all instructions from your engineer, forcing you to keep asking him to repeat everything he just said.

You push the radio button on your steering wheel, not giving a fuck if your next message gets played out over the public airwaves.

“He’s trying to kill me, I swear!”

“Easy mate, you’re faster than him, just maintain the gap.”

You grumble and swear and take your frustrations out on the car, braking late and hard into almost every corner. You know this isn’t the way to drive this circuit, but at the moment you’re willing to try _anything_ to quieten the droning inside your skull.

It was affecting everything and you hated it. Why couldn’t he just stay away like he was supposed to?

You finish fifth in the end. He finishes eighth, a botched pit stop working in your favour. Fifth’s fine, you tell yourself, fifth still means points. Not _enough_ points, but points nonetheless.

The press ask you about your radio messages in the pen, but you laugh and joke and brush all comments off with a flash of teeth and a wink of an eye.

You make a hurried exit the second the chorus in your head starts building.

\------------------------------

_DR: What was that?_

_NH: Racing, I believe._

_DR: Come on man, you promised you’d keep clear._

_NH: I don’t think I “promised” anything._

\---------------------------

A couple of races later you find yourself in the same press conference as Hulkenberg. You’re assigned to the seat next to him, infact, your heart sinking when you read the name on the piece of paper placed on the seat next to yours.

They’ve put you front and centre, because you’re still pummeling Seb in the points and everyone keeps going on about it. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve had to answer questions about it, the journalists always sounding smug and expecting a proud boast from you, but you know better than to fall into their traps. So when they wink and nudge you just smile your usual smile and talk about how lucky you are and how it could happen to anyone. You’re prepared for the same such questions today, but if Hulkenberg’s going to be sat next to you you’re not sure how focused you can be through that infernal music.

You hear him coming before you see him, and the uncharacteristic frown that marrs his face tells you that he feels exactly the same about being here. You watch him trying not to scowl as he makes his way over to his chair and to your horror you find yourself stifling a laugh. The sensation bubbling up from your throat and threatening to overflow into your mouth before you clamp your lips tightly shut. But not before an embarrassing little coughing sound escapes.

Hulkenberg snaps his gaze to you as he walks past, shooting you an angry glare. And you can’t help by notice that he’s walked around the front of the desk instead of trying to get past behind you, like anyone else would.

He runs a hand through his hair as he sits down, messing it up even further, his fingers seemingly raking the skin right off of his skull. You know exactly how he feels. And it’s right then, with slowly-widening eyes, that you realise that you’re both in the absolute same boat, adrift in a storm. You’re both suffering, this thing is eating you both alive and neither of you have any idea what to do about it. You should probably talk. Again. If only he would _co-operate._

But it’s then that a hush descends onto the room and the announcer begins talking, reeling off your names like he’s taking a school register. You would grin and hold your head high, but you seem to be distracted by Hulkenberg’s hands. His fingers are drumming on the desk in front of him, moving in a steady if erratic rhythm. You can't hear the sound that they're making, of course, over the concert that seems to be taking place within your head, but your eyes are mesmerised by the way his fingertips skitter across the dark surface. His nails are bitten down to the quick.

"Daniel?" Someone says, waiting for an answer to a question you haven't heard. The fingers stop tapping, and your tear your eyes away.

"Sorry, what?" You cast your gaze out towards the waiting faces and the harsh lights and strain to hear what the man is now saying.

You answer a couple of questions about the upcoming weekend - the usual fare, and you smile reassuringly, praying that no-one notices how forced it is. The attention turns to Fernando after a while, and you let out a whooshing breath as you lean back into your uncomfortable chair.

As you do so your leg hits something, and the noise in your head spikes so suddenly that you involuntarily twitch. You witness Hulkenberg flinch violently at the same time, and you realise that your leg bumped into his, by accident. Blessedly, Fernando is still talking, the focus diverted to him as you rock yourself forwards again, muttering a whispered "sorry" to the German next to you.

He turns and looks at you then, the scowl that you've become used to slowly melting away, the expression falling from his features, the lines disappearing, and you notice then how _old_ his eyes are. He's older than you, of course, but there's something down in those depths that speaks of history and experience, like his soul has been waiting an awful long time. 

_Waiting for you_, some maudlin part of you says.

He glances down at your arms and for a second you're puzzled as to what he's looking at, but then you see it. Every single hair on the forearm next to his is bent towards him, arcing away from your body like iron filings towards a magnet. You meet Hulkenberg's gaze again with eyes that you know are wide, and he gives you a look of cold steel and zero emotion, accompanied by the tiniest of nods. There's singing in your skull.

He has to answer a question then, so you both face front again, your mind whirring with thought and sound in a seemingly never-ending spiral, each tendril coming back to Hulkenberg and you and this thing that hovers between you, pulling you together with invisible strings. You’re trying to work out what everything means, because whatever is happening right now is impossible and ridiculous and you keep telling yourself that things like this simply _cannot happen_ but yet here you are. Living it. It’s not a dream, or a story, this is_ your life_ and it’s getting harder to convince yourself that it’s not happening.

You can feel yourself drifting, your vision blurring and you’re pretty sure you’re going to pass out (wouldn’t that be something), when all of a sudden it's like someone has turned a light on, or thrown you a life raft. The music cuts through you, pulling you roughly from wherever you were falling to, and drags you back to the surface, back to the cameras and the spotlights and reality.

Hulkenberg has placed the toe of his shoe over yours. It’s a tiny thing, the smallest of gestures, but it’s like a jigsaw piece falling into place, clicking with it’s partner into a perfect interlocked shape. The music is no longer too loud, or painful, or annoying. It’s the perfect accompaniment to what’s happening right now, right at this second. 

It’s taking every single ounce of strength you have to keep yourself facing forwards and not to wrap your feet around Hulkenberg’s ankle. Your big toe twitches, almost as if it’s trying to break out of the sneaker. And still the melody is perfect and soaring and beautiful.

_What is going on?_

You can’t describe the relief that you feel when the press conference comes to an end, now that you don’t have all those eyes watching you, analysing your every move - you dread to think what the photos and reports will say after this, what mangled expressions you’ve had on your face for the last fifteen minutes.

Hulkenberg moves first, he’s sluggish though, his foot peeling away from yours like he’s dragging it through caramel. He winces as the music’s volume hurts again, and gets up and walks out with jerky, forced movements. Something has changed today, here in this room, and as the sounds in your head quieten down it becomes increasingly clear that this will only get better if you’re together - properly_ touching _each other together - or far apart.

It’s either always together, or always apart. 

It turns out that you didn’t need to talk after all.

\-----------------------------------------

“You okay?”

The question is so random, so out of the blue that it catches you off-guard. Seb has somehow appeared at your side without you even realising he was there. _Get your head back in the game, Ricciardo._ Now he’s walking with you, looking at you with concerned eyes.

“Me? I’m fine, mate. Why?” You smile, flashing teeth at him in a hopefully reassuring way.

Seb frowns slightly but immediately schools his face back into it’s default friendly configuration, just like he’s been trained to do. He’s very good at it.

“Oh, nothing. You’ve just been a bit weird lately. Distracted.”

_Distracted? Weird?_

God, how obvious have you been? How much have you shown to the outside world?

“I’m telling you, I’m fine.” You smile wider, just to emphasise how ‘fine’ you are. “Good luck in the race!”

You quicken your pace, clearly ending the conversation with that. You try to keep to a fast walk for as long as you can, looking normal, when all you want to do is sprint away. Your team-mate’s words have the cogs in your head spinning, yes he’s a perceptive guy, but he’s not particularly close to you and even he’s noticed a change in you. 

Seb doesn’t come after you, doesn’t say anything else.

He’s already said enough.

\----------------------------------------

“Who’s third?” You ask, when the race is over. “Who finished third?”

“Hulkenberg.” Comes the answer, ringing through your head.

It hits you like a sonic punch in the gut. The press conference was bad enough, how the hell are you supposed to cope with podium celebrations? Because this has evolved into something else now, the next phase of whatever it is. It can’t be ignored anymore, no matter how hard you want to try. There’s a part of you that doesn’t want to try though, some little curious part that wants to embrace it, to hold it close and see what happens next.

That scares you the most.

_Be strong, Daniel._

You get out of your car and dive into the pit complex as quickly as you can, pausing only to give a thumbs up to the cameras and your team. The third-placed car isn’t there yet, thank god, but you can feel the humming getting increasingly louder and you know that he’s coming.

You greet race winner Lewis in the pre-podium room with a hearty hug and a slap on the back - and it’s not just a distraction, you really mean it, he’s been doing so well this season. Okay it’s a little bit of a distraction, because Nico’s getting closer (when did he become ‘Nico’ to you?), you can practically track his movements up the stairs outside. The melody has returned and you have to excuse yourself from Lewis and retreat to the far side of the room with a bottle of water, just to be as far away as the space will allow.

Nico enters and immediately looks for you, locking his eyes to yours almost instantly. His expression gives nothing away, carefully guarded and closed, and you stare back for what feels like a full minute but is probably only a second. When Lewis grabs Nico by the shoulder, you force yourself to blink, your eyeballs suddenly hot and uncomfortable.

The music is beautiful and booming and all-encompassing. You close your mouth with an audible snap of teeth that echoes inside your skull.

And then you’re all being hustled outside and up to the podium for the ceremony, someone shoves a hat and watch into your hands and you fumble with the clasps on both, your fingers betraying you with quivers and shakes.

The sound of the cheering crowd cuts through the music briefly, before you’re swallowed up again. It sucks you down like quicksand, you keep trying to resurface and grab a gulp of air but ultimately it’s a futile act. The sand keeps winning.

You don’t look at Nico, you can feel him, standing a few feet away from you in the third place spot, but to look at him now would surely break you. With a well-practiced grin plastered on your face you focus on the crowds below, trying to pick out individual faces to distract you from the noise in your head.

You accept the trophy and pose for the photos, as still as a statue, every fibre of your being pulled taut until you’re aching with the strain. Lewis turns and shakes your hand, and then does the same to Nico, and suddenly you realise that you’re going to have to shake Nico’s hand too. You’re going to have to _touch_ him skin to skin and you’re really not sure if you can handle that. Everything is too loud and too close and you feel the colour drain from your cheeks as you finally look Nico in his strangely old eyes. 

They’re so blue.

You’ve never noticed that before. You can’t believe that you’ve never noticed that before. Blue like the centre of the sky. They drop to look at your right hand, the hand you’re expected to hold out so he can shake. You clench your fist once, twice to stop it trembling. If anyone else was talking to you right now you wouldn’t hear it, Nico’s song filling your ears, filling your body.

He makes the first move (again, he’s much braver than you are, obviously), shoving his hand towards you in a sharp staccato motion, shattering the temporary paralysis that held you.

So your hand meets his, tanned skin on pink flesh, and suddenly everything makes sense. The music, the pull, everything, because he is the song. You are the song. _We are the song_. All you can feel is him, all you can see is him, and all you can hear is him. It’s a brutal and thorough assault on your senses and you are utterly, irrevocably lost.

You have no idea how much time passes. The next thing you know you’re being pulled apart by Lewis, being forced to stand on that podium and smile and wave and act normal. Everything after that passes in a blur - walking off the podium, doing interviews, everything feels like it’s been placed on mute since you held Nico’s hand (you didn’t shake it, you held it).

Before you know it, the day is over and you’re being hustled away, preparations underway for some kind of party, even though you only finished second - you chide yourself inwardly for thinking of second place as ‘only’, how things have changed.

How things have changed indeed.

\--------------------------------

The party is in full swing, you’re laughing and joking and getting kind of sick of being patted on the back but you don’t tell anyone. The champagne is flowing and the atmosphere is great and everything is pretty much perfect. Until you hear it. At first it mingles with the DJ’s music, but as it gets louder you recognise the notes and you know that Nico is coming. You flick a glance around the room but you can’t pick him out, that telltale mop of dirty blonde hair not visible under the dancing lights.

Excusing yourself from the group of people you were talking to you make your way towards an exit, taking note of the rising chords as you do so. You’re moving in the right direction.

You find him leant up against the side of an Infiniti Red Bull Racing truck, one long leg bent and his head bowed. 

“Daniel.” He says, breaking the silence, not looking up. Of course he knows that you’re there and damn him, he’s made the first move once again. When are you going to grow a spine when it comes to him?

“Hey. Nico.” You say his name too fast, and the moment that you wanted to savour is gone.

“Great race today.” He says, unmoving.

“You too, mate.” You take two steps forward, hearing the music swell as you do. You fight the urge to turn and run away from it, to quieten the din.

“Dan.” It’s a warning, said in a low tone, with all the not-so-hidden implications of_ ‘are you sure you want to do this?’._

As an answer you steel yourself, tensing up and walking forwards, each step slower and more drawn-out than the last, until you’re right next to him. Until you can see the faint traces of stubble on his cheek. 

Here’s your spine.

You reach your hand out towards his hanging by his side, stroking it lightly with the tips of your fingers. You’re terrified, and it’s absurd, how can you be terrified of Nico Hulkenberg? You drive a Formula 1 car for god’s sake, and yet somehow this is more frightening than hurtling along tarmac at 200 miles per hour.

Your song is thumping into the core of your brain, threatening to rip it apart with each beat and you’re about to do it, about to make the biggest move of all when he beats you to it. He turns to you, lightning-fast, grabs your face with both of his hands, and kisses you.

The hand-holding is nothing compared to this, you’re struck dumb and immobile and for a second you forget who you are. Then your eyes close and your mouth moves against his and the song has spilled out of your head, down into your limbs and out of your pores and it’s all around you, cocooning you both. He tastes of the unexpected - strawberries and shadows and a hint of alcohol which implies that he had something to drink before coming to crash your party. Maybe he’s not as brave as you thought he was.

He’s still holding your head, his grip tight and his fingers splayed around the bones of your skull, as if he can’t bear to let you go. You bring your hands up around his back, scrunching them into the material of his dark shirt, the fabric feeling warm under your touch. His tongue snakes it’s way into your mouth and you allow your own to dance with it, enticing a quiet moan from Nico’s throat as you deepen the kiss.

The music is reaching a crescendo, building and building and you realise that you haven’t heard the full song yet - you’ve heard verses and breaks and bridges but you have no idea how it ends, no idea where this is going to take you or where the finish line is. It’s making you move faster, in time with it’s rhythm, you’re being dragged along with it’s current, pushing and pulling. You’re devouring Nico’s mouth now, sucking and biting his lip as you dive in for more again and again. You adjust your grip on his back and pull him towards you suddenly, making him trip and fall into you as the music reaches a peak in it’s song.

Something seems to click in Nico then, and he wrenches himself out of your grasp and away from your kiss. _He’s beautiful,_ you think (where did this come from?), as he stands there, flushed and panting and wide-eyed. He brings a hand up to his mouth and touches it tentatively, as if to check that it’s swollen, to check that this is actually happening. He’s scared, obviously. Perhaps just as scared as you are. It dawns on you that you’ve only ever said a handful of words to each other, face to face. And now look at you. But this is _right,_ this is how it’s meant to be - you’ve never been more sure of anything in your life. If the music tells you anything, then it’s that.

Nico’s still standing there, two feet away from you, and you can almost see the cogs turning in his head, can almost hear the conversation that he’s holding internally.

“We need to stop.” He says, voice barely above a whisper. 

Well, that was unexpected.

He scrunches his eyes closed then, ignores the answering silence and continues, almost as if he’s talking to himself.

“But I can’t seem to. I know I should, but I don’t.. I don’t want to.” He drops his eyes to the floor, kicks a stray pebble with his toe. “It’s wrong and stupid, and _absolutely insane_, but all I think about is you. You and this stupid song in my head. But we can’t do this, you know we can’t do it, right?” 

He was right, of course. To a degree. But you prided yourself on going against the grain, of not caring what others thought, of always doing your own thing. It was part of who you were.

Everything was conflicting. Emotions, senses. Since the podium everything had been flipped on it’s axis, you were all set to leave it alone, to deal with it by yourself before you touched him.

He was still standing there, waiting. Waiting for you to agree with him. He brings his gaze up shyly and stares at you as the silence stretches on, his blue eyes boring holes into your own, as if he’s willing you to reply. What could you say? Obviously you both wanted to be together, but also as obviously you couldn’t possibly be together. There was no right answer.

You sigh loudly, the sound slicing through the moment.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I agree with everything you said.” You take a step closer, almost involuntarily. “And I think that we need to talk, properly, about all _this._” You make a vague swirling motion with your hand near your head. “But..”

Another step forwards.

“But?”

“But all I want to do is touch you.”

And you don’t know if it’s the champagne or the atmosphere or the close proximity but all of a sudden _you_ make the first move (finally) and are about to crash in him headfirst when--

“Dan?” A voice called from the darkness.

You freeze, eyes wide, mid-lunge towards Nico who launches himself backwards with such force that he hits the side of the lorry behind him. He blinks at you, both of you wondering if there’s time to run, if this doesn’t look like what it looks like. It’s your move.

There’s a split-second to make a decision.

You turn your head, shouting into the darkness.

“Yeah?” And you take one last look at Nico - registering that look in his eyes, the one that says _you’re leaving, you’re actually going_ \- then jog back towards to party, towards the voice that called for you. It feels like running through tar, like your legs don’t want to take you further away from Nico. It’s getting worse, this pull. You want nothing more than to just give into it and let it drag you back to him. But you plaster a smile on your face, rejoin the party where your guests are waiting for you, and try to ignore the ever-decreasing sound of the song in your head.

\-------------------------------

That night you hear him. You're staying at the same hotel and just as you're about to drift off to sleep you hear his music. Your music. _Our music._ It ebbs and throbs as he moves through the hotel, across floors and up stairs, and you're about to kick off because you're so tired and this is not helping. But then you realise something - it's getting steadily louder. He's seeking you out. He's following the volume of the music, trying to find your room.

Suddenly you're wide awake, bolting upright in your bed so fast that your tipsy head is sent spinning. He's coming here. And you're in your bed half-dressed and half-drunk.

You scramble out of the bed, flicking on the bedside lamp and dragging most of the duvet to the floor with you as you go. You need to get some clothes on. Or something. What does he want? To talk? Something more? Are you ready for that?

You don't get a chance to answer your own question as a loud knock echoes through the room. The song is loud and intense and you know instinctively that it's him. It couldn't be anyone else.

"Dan." Comes the voice through the wood before you've even had a chance to collect yourself. "Dan let me in. It's me." 

_I know it's you, you idiot._

You try and brace yourself the best you can, because you have to answer him, you can't just ignore him. A million thoughts run through your head in the space of a second - why is he here, what does he want, _what’s going to happen now?_ You grab the door handle with a hand that is much more clammy than you’d like and inch it open slowly.

At least, that was the plan.

Because the instant the door cracks open Nico is on you, shoving himself into the room and onto your mouth and you’re too taken aback to fight, to stop. It takes you the length of a decent pit stop to recover from the initial onslaught, vaguely aware that Nico has slammed the door shut behind him and he’s pushing you backwards further into the room. You put up zero resistance.

_He’s drunk._ You realise. _He’s gone and got himself drunk._

You’re on your back on the bed when you open your eyes next, head full of song and eyes full of Nico. Every touch sends riffs and melodies through your veins until you think you might be _made_ of the music. Nico stops kissing and locks gazes with you briefly - dilated, black, endless - before he begins to suck at your neck, pulling the skin in with sharp inhales and nips of teeth.

“Dude..” You gasp out between breaths.

Nico removes his mouth from your skin with a ‘pop’. “Shush.”

“But.. this..”

“Shush.”

Germans. Straight to the point. If you ever had any worries about what Nico wanted from this, they were thrown straight out of the proverbial window. And if Nico wasn’t worried, why were you making such a big deal out of it? Fuck it, you live in a world where music plays in your head whenever a certain someone gets close to you. You’re pretty sure one night of just _giving in_ isn’t going to kill you. It’s time to be a little more Australian.

No worries. No dramas.

“Alright.” You say, simply. And felt Nico smile against your neck as the song burst into another verse, heavy with drums and bass.

You grab him with both hands and pull him downwards so that you’re attached from head to toe. He grinds into you deliciously, perfectly aligned and positioned, both of you as hard as rocks. You both squirm and shuffle together, stripping off the layers of clothes inbetween you, t-shirts and shorts being thrown haphazardly across the room. And he’s back on you again, but this time his mouth is edging lower, lower. You fist your hands into his hair, halting his movements, tilting his face upwards.

“You sure?” Just in case.

Nico responds by rolling his eyes. “You talk too much.”

You can’t help but grin at him as he continues what he was doing, his head dipping down again to kiss around your bellybutton. Light, ticklish pecks that make you wriggle, igniting little solos in your head as he goes. You close your eyes and let the music wash over you, all that exists is Nico’s mouth and your song and his touch and oh god _Nico’s MOUTH._

He kisses the tip of your cock with the ghost of a kiss and you almost buck up into his face reflexively.

“Shit, sorry, fuck.” You garble out, trying to stay still.

Nico’s doing something with his tongue now and you’re having trouble focussing because oh god you’re so turned on and hot and your skin feels like it’s made of cobwebs. You claw at the bedsheets with your hands as his lovely mouth wraps itself around your cock and descends agonizingly slowly until you’re surrounded by warmth and wetness and everywhere he’s touching you is like solid magic.

The music in your head is deafening now, you know you’re moaning and making some of your most obscene noises but you can’t hear them at all, buried underneath the song. This is surely the best moment of your life - better than winning a race, and oh so much better than sex without sound.

Nico moves, settles into a rhythm that corresponds exactly with the beat in your heads and you’re trying your hardest not to thrust into him and choke him but it’s the best feeling and you just can’t help yourself. It builds and builds and everything is _Nico_ \- around you, on you, inside you - and just when you think your body can’t possibly take any more stimulation you somersault over the edge of your orgasm, with no time to give Nico a warning. You come with a strangled yelp, feeling your eyes roll back into your skull and the music ascends into a completely different tune that you’ve never heard before and oh, oh, it’s perfect. Everything is perfect.

When you’ve collected yourself together enough to open your eyes you look down and are greeted by a cheeky lop-sided grin beneath a mop of ash blond hair and you instinctively think ‘_Mine_’ before you can reason with or stop yourself. When did he become yours? But he is. He belongs to you.

Nico licks his lips (oh god) and pulls himself up the bed towards you, inch by inch. For a minute you just watch him, the way his skin shifts over his muscles, the number of times he blinks. He chuckles at you, and then grabs one of your hands and guides it down to his waiting cock, and _oh_, you think, _of course._

\------------

It’s only when you wake up the next morning (with his legs wrapped around you, and his arm across your chest) that you realise something is wrong.

The thought catches you completely by surprise and you jerk upwards with a gasp, launching Nico both from your body and his own slumber.

“It’s gone.”

“What?” Nico says blearily, wiping at his eyes with a hand.

“The music. It’s gone.”

Nico frowns (adorably, little lines appearing on his forehead), looking like he’s concentrating for a second before it dawns on him too, his blue eyes widening.

“Everything’s so… quiet.”

He was right. The silence in your head now was almost deafening. You’d gotten so used to always hearing the hum or the melody that the absence of it now was disconcerting, like you’ve spontaneously lost a limb, or the sense of smell. Just when you’d learnt to not be afraid of it, you’re scared all over again.

Nico’s fingers wrap around your chin, dragging you back out of your thoughts and into reality.

“Dan, stop it. I can tell you’re over-thinking.” 

_What does it mean what does it mean..._

“Daniel. Look at me.”

You snap your gaze to Nico, still half-lost in the silent chasm of your own mind.

“We don’t need it.”

“But what--”

“We don’t _need_ it, Dan.”

And the sheer conviction in his voice, the absolute belief that oozed from his every word broke through your walls, cleaving them down into large chunks that tumbled and fell around you until you were left alone in the dust.

Wait. Not alone.


End file.
